“My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!” said Mrs. Epanchin, cuttingly, after having listened with great attention. “I really don’t absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was very sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope.” “What sort of hope?” “It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in your mind. Hopes—well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling of joy that _there_, at all events, I was not entirely a stranger and a foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native land once more; and one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote her that letter, but why to _her_, I don’t quite know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near, and I evidently felt the need of one then,” added the prince, and paused. “Are you in love with her?” “N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her brother.” “Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand.” “It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha Prokofievna.” “I dare say it is; but that’s no affair of mine. Now then, assure me truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?” “No, I am not lying.” “Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?” “I believe it is the absolute truth.” “‘I believe,’ indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?” “I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch...” “The urchin! the urchin!” interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry voice. “I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The urchin!” “Nicolai Ardalionovitch...” “The urchin, I tell you!” “No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch,” said the prince very firmly, but without raising his voice. “Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your account.” She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure. “Well!—and what’s the meaning of the ‘poor knight,’ eh?” “I don’t know in the least; I wasn’t present when the joke was made. It _is_ a joke. I suppose, and that’s all.” “Well, that’s a comfort, at all events. You don’t suppose she could take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an ‘idiot’ herself.” “I think you might have spared me that,” murmured the prince reproachfully, almost in a whisper. “Don’t be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such another. But for all that you needn’t flatter yourself, my boy; she is not for you. I don’t believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you swear that you are not married to that woman?” “Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?” cried the prince, almost leaping to his feet in amazement. “Why? You very nearly were, anyhow.” “Yes—I nearly was,” whispered the prince, hanging his head.